Saving the Vette
by Frapper
Summary: Non-lineal story dealing with the retrieval of the corvette after they abandoned it with Decker at the beginning of the episode "Incident at Crystal Lake". Long explanation on this format on the A.N of the first chapter. Warning: maiming of main character from the start (HIM, of course. Who else?)
1. Chapter 1

**Saving the Vette**

 _ **Disclaimer**_ _: This is a non-profit piece intended for entertainment purposes only. I don't own the copyrights on the characters of the A-Team, I only play with them for fun._

 _ **A.N – Didn't I say when I finished the other A-Team story that I would take a little break from writing and start reading the backlog of ff stories I have in the "to-read" list? Yes, I did. But… I love fooling myself too much. My flight got delayed two days ago, so, what else could I do with that extra time at the airport with a crappy wifi? Exactly. You got it: writing, rather than reading. Bummer. At least I only got delayed, not sucked out of the window like my fictional character Mrs Everson or that poor real-life woman yesterday. How spooky is that?**_

 _ **I watched the last episode of season 3 shortly before I finished the "Back in 'Nam" story, right when I was planning how to recover the van. That episode gave me the idea of using a cabin in the woods by the lake to give them a break, and I made up they had left the van parked by the airfield, and the corvette left at a garage, because I've always wondered how they recovered the vehicles. The resulting plot bunny of watching that episode has been bothering me ever since. The issue: how do they recover the Vette every time they escape in the van and they leave the car behind? And, where do they park it/keep it every time they go out of the country? And more specifically: how did they retrieve the Vette after leaving it with Decker at the beginning of that episode, "Incident at Crystal Lake"? I guess there are a few stories about this issue, but I haven't read any yet. And I don't want to, at the moment, so I don't get interference with their contents while I am writing mine.**_

 _ **Despite trying to knock that pesky plot bunny on the head, back to the limbo where it belongs, the thought stuck with me since, so, at the airport I decided to try a new kind of story for me, just for kicks. It will be messy, non-lineal, going forwards and backwards in time, with multiple POVs written in first person, including some unusual ones, like the Vette itself. Every time I mention some significant event in the story, shortly after there will be a chunk of text/scene related to that, whenever that happened. I hope it doesn't get too complicated to follow the plot with this new format. I want to experiment, so bear with me. And If I fail miserably with it, I can always rearrange the bits to make the story lineal, no biggie.**_

 _ **As usual: action, action, action… plus violence, humour, angst, hurt and comfort, filth, maiming, blood, and in this one, lots of inner dialogue/thoughts. Not many surprises there!**_

 _ **WARNING: Maiming of main character right from the start, sorry. And you know who that would be ;)**_

 _ **And, FYI, the theme throughout will be: "Damn!" (you'll see lots of "damns" everywhere. It's not an unconscious repetition. It is the funny theme here, everybody is moaning, and saying it, constantly. And I mean**_ **everybody** _ **, no exceptions.)**_

 _ **Now, there we go. Have fun! And please, take the little time it takes to review, if you can, and tell me what you think of this new project, thanks.**_

 _ **Ready… steady… maim! LOL**_

 **1**

I swear to God, the next time Hannibal says that something, anything, will be _"a piece of cake"_ , I'll shove that cigar down his throat with a mighty, furious punch! C.O or not, I don't care, because I've had it!

Every time that man says those words, someone gets hurt. And most of the times, that someone is me. Why does it have to be me, always me? That crazy, jolly buffoon that I called "my friend" jokes about it sometimes: _"hit him anywhere but the face"_ he says, pissing himself laughing, like I'm sure the other two do as well when I'm not looking, as if getting trashed by hoods all the time could be funny, for anyone. Maybe it is hilarious for them to watch how they beat me to a pulp, but it's not so enjoyable for me, always at the receiving end of this shit. And unfortunately, this time, nobody explained the bad guys they should spare my good looks, because the blows keep landing there, right on my face! _Damn!_

With the last punch that split the left corner of my lower lip, I felt a veneer losing up, again. I have lost count of how many times I had to go to the dentist to have bits and pieces replaced or fixed. By now, that guy must think that I am an out-of-control sadomasochist perv who can't get enough thrills from landing blows in his mouth. And in the meantime, he's getting rich. With our hard-earned money. _Damn!_

"Well, I'm waiting, Peck," said the man in charge, Colonel Decker, who was enjoying the punishment from a short, safe distance, not getting his hands dirty with my blood, the bastard. "Will you tell me now?"

The brute in uniform that was hitting me yanked at my long, blonde hair, pulling my head up so I would look at his boss in the eye. I blinked with my mouth open, gasping for air, unable to breathe through my broken, bleeding nose, wondering if I should style my hair as short as B.A, so the bullies won't have such an easy grip on me ever again. I focused my bruised, already puffy and half-closed eyes on the Colonel's, while a trickle of blood ran from my split lip, down to my neck, on its way to join the large, red stain on my expensive white shirt, made by the torrent of blood running down my nose.

 _Damn!_ All that blood will never wash off well from that fabric. Another good shirt ruined.

Decker looked expectant, but no, I wasn't going to tell him shit, and he knew it. So, instead of the location of the guys, I delivered the usual snappy comment, a talent that such an uninspired, boring man, will never appreciate fully, but… old habits die hard.

"I already told you I can't… because I don't know. Did you forget to change the battery of your hearing aid?"

Decker, stone-faced, crossed his arms over his chest and nodded to that soldier one more time. The brute let go of my head, stepped back, and delivered such a stupendous right hook to my jaw that he sent me to the floor with chair and all. I banged my head on the hard concrete, seeing black dots, but against all odds, I didn't pass out. I guess Decker was impressed by my unconceivable toughness. Who wouldn't? I certainly was, chuffed with myself.

The already wonky veneer inevitably fell off then, floating loose in my, by now, extremely sore mouth. I wanted to keep that little piece of porcelain safe, so the dentist only needed to glue it back in place, always a cheaper option than replacing it with a new one, but I had my wrists handcuffed behind my back on that chair, so I couldn't. I coughed, feeling quite nauseous and dizzy after that blow, and I spat the veneer out to the floor within a blob of blood and saliva, giving up on it. Another one that I couldn't keep for later. _Damn!_

By then, I got scared, freaking out. How far was Decker taking this? He said I would need plastic surgery by the end of it. Oh, boy. Was he serious? And, how much more could I take before I cried like a baby, asking for mercy? Because I really didn't know where the guys went, so I couldn't tell him, even if I wanted to. And yes, I meant to look for a tracker before I got in the car, but I got so excited to see my baby again, that I forgot. _Damn!_

Not completely satisfied with that punch, the soldier booted me as I lay on the floor on my right side, dazed, still attached to that chair. I didn't expect that mean, brutal kick, so I didn't tense my almost non-existent six-pack to soften the blow, and that boot sank in my upper abdomen, hard, fast, and deep.

I cried out in agony then. I was already sore above that area, thanks to the cracked rib I got when that guy shot me at close range at the cabin while I was, luckily, wearing one of Bob's bulletproof fishing vests, before I fell off the widow, but this pain was something else. Something had gone wrong, really wrong, inside. I felt it like a bang, right there, under the ribs: something burst within, and the pain was suddenly unbearable. But I didn't have much time to panic about it, because I passed out almost immediately with the shock.

AAA

I was so glad to see him, my dear, oh-my-God-so-handsome servant. At last! Such a happy sight after weeks of boredom in that ugly, filthy, fetid garage, waiting for him to show up and drive me away.

What a dreadful experience! And the worse part of that lonely nightmare? That annoying, somehow elongated, lean man with the deeper-than-deep voice, who had the nerve of taking me for sneaky rides at night, farting on my red leather! How dared he, the stinky son of a tow truck!

I nearly leaked some oil with the excitement when I felt my servant's soft hands at the wheel again, and the warmth of his cute arse on the driver's seat.

I love him. More than a master should ever love their servants. But he is different, and in some respects, a true gentleman, because during all the years he had served me, he had never, ever, farted on my leather. Never. That's what I call RESPECT. Although, he had done many other dirty things, my cheeky, deliciously indecent, little scumbag. Most of the smutty, filthy moves involved beautiful blondes, his favourites, as well as an endless stream of some other not-so-stunning babes with nearly any hair colour, because after all, contrary to popular belief, he's not really that picky when it comes to women: at times of need, nearly anything goes for him, unless they resemble orcs, of course. He has that very minimal, basic set of standards. Poor thing, he must draw the line somewhere.

I am aware most people consider me a powerful chick magnet, even though I'm not the most comfortable ride for a quick shag, but hey, thanks to him, I've seen naked, dumb blondes from every possible angle, as he has always been so creative, using nearly every inch of my surface for that shagging purpose, specially the bonnet. Oh, God, how much I love having a vigorous body polishing from time to time! Or as I prefer to call it: a B6 (Bodywork Bum-Buffing By Beautiful Babes, a Faceman ™, patent pending. The term B6 is applicable to Blondes, Brunettes, Brown or Black hair ladies. Not so much to the Reds and Gingers. Or Grays, of course, because ageing ladies also fall below shaggable standards for him. Shame about the reds, though; they match my leather, and the stripe). All that B6 rubbing keeps all my surfaces –including the leather interior– so shiny and slick, smooth like silk. I love it!

So, as I was saying before I lost track, going off in tangents with the babes: my servant was back at the wheel and I nearly melt with joy. However, I didn't have much time to revel in the pleasure of that physical contact, because as soon as he turned the key to start my engine, three soldiers materialized out of nowhere, and surrounded us with their weapons, aiming at his gorgeous face.

He should have hit the pedal, run them over, and break free from that shithole, smashing the garage door with my nose, but no, he couldn't do that, the idiot. He couldn't contemplate doing such thing, causing me any harm, so he turned back the key, killing my roaring, eager-to-go engine, and he lifted his arms, surrendering. _Damn!_ What a fool!

At times like this, I wished they would have fitted me with an A.I computer, like that KITT that has a zizzing, flashy red nose like Rudolph. That lucky, black Pontiac Firebird can do as it pleases, driving itself under its own mind and will. It's so unfair! If I had that system mounted in my dashboard, I would have go for it today, head-on. After all, what do I care about a few bumps and scratches on my face and body, or even becoming a total wreck? I could always be repaired, not like them humans, those soft and squashy, irreplaceable little things. He is more important to me than my bodywork, and I want to keep him safe. But, as I already said, he is an idiot with no sense, and he always gets in a pickle. Always. So, instead of using me as a battering ram, he surrendered, and now, he was the one getting trashed and crushed, while I could only watch, impotent, unable to help him. _Damn!_

I hope his three friends show up soon, because he went really quiet after the nasty kick that bulky, mean-spirited jerk directed to his undercarriage.

Maybe if I concentrate fully, like a Jedi Master Car, I can suddenly open my door and smash his lower parts the next time that soldier comes near me. That would be something unexpected!

AAA

"Shit, Face, what have they done to you?" I said when I lifted his lifeless body up in my arms to place him at the passenger's seat of the Vette. I was shocked by the state of him, and I felt like crying, or hitting someone, specially Decker. If I had the chance of getting my hands on him right now I could always blame the fury on my insanity, because I was so furious that I could kill him, for real.

Poor Face. He always got battered, but not like this. Never like this. This was too much!

I opened the garage door, jumped behind the wheel, and drove out of there as fast I could go without crashing. Face was out, totally limp, and his head lolled forward, with his chin resting on that blood stain that had turned the top of his white shirt of a brownish-red colour. At least, he was breathing through his open mouth and his broken nose wasn't bleeding so much now, but he looked pale as a sheet.

Damn you, Decker!

I felt especially bad, and guilty, because I had insisted on him going in to get the car, when he was so cautious and reluctant to do it, suspecting a trap, which is what this was: a fucking trap. He had felt the _bad jazz_ , but I didn't listen to him. _Damn!_

"Hold on, Facey. We'll get you to a hospital, or at least, to see Dr Sullivan to check you over. You'll be alright," I said, but he couldn't hear me, or answer me. Then, I remembered the tracker. "Did you have time to look for the tracker?"

Even if he did, they could have replaced it when they caught him red-handed, so I stopped the car at the side and stepped down to check. I squeezed as much as I could under the low car, crawling on my back to have a good look, but I couldn't see anything suspicious. But just in case, we could use B.A's little toy to look for bugs and transmitters when we meet them. Then, when I was about to get up and go back behind the wheel, I saw something dropping from the undercarriage. It was a small transmitter. That was lucky!

I got back to the car and carried on to the next junction, where I stopped again, waiting. The transmitter had a magnetic catch, so I had no problem planting it on the bumper of the tatty, rusty truck that stopped at that junction shortly after, right next to me. Then, I got on the phone.

"Hannibal, we got the car, but it was a trap. They beat Face real bad. I think he needs a hospital."

AAAAA


	2. Chapter 2

– **2 –**

"Don't worry. There's nobody there, Face. I just checked. If I had the keys with me, I would have taken it myself. As planned, you should sneak in now while the MPs are out chasing the van, use the spare key, and get the Vette under Decker's nose while I watch your back. A piece of cake, as Hannibal said yesterday," Murdock said, crouched down with me behind a white van.

I nearly slapped him out of that nonsense. Nothing is ever a _"piece of cake"_ for us. Ever. He should know that, after years of following a crazy, former C.O high on the _jazz_.

We had this place under surveillance for two days. We knew the ins and outs, and yes, it looked dead easy. But something didn't add up. It wasn't right. It gave me the wrong kind of _jazz_. A very bad feeling.

"Are you sure? I don't know. I can't see it. Why would they all bugger off to chase the van leaving the Vette unguarded? The MPs should know better by now. There is something fishy here. I can't put my finger on it, but it can't be that easy. It gives me the bad jazz, you know, the kind that urges me to turn around and run for my life. It has to be a trap."

One thing I couldn't understand was the real reason why my car was there, at a repair shop, and not at the guarded, police lot where all the tow trucks left the impounded cars. Where the Vette was before, if only briefly. Did the fools damage my baby while towing it? Because it didn't make sense. So, with the lack of a plausible motive, I kept thinking it had to be a trap.

"Don't be silly and stop moaning, Face. Do you want to get the Vette or not? This is Decker we are talking about! He is as predictable as a Swiss clock. He likes the chase, you know that, like a bloodhound. And he can't improvise."

"I don't know. I think he's smartening up a bit by now, as he gets more and more frustrated, humiliated by the constant failure. Don't you remember? The other day, at Crystal Lake, Decker said: _"if they even twitch, shoot to kill"_. Even Hannibal was impressed by that change in attitude. Decker won't give us two minutes anymore, not even two seconds, ever again."

"Do you want me to do it then? Give me the keys, and you stay here," he said, tending his open, bony palm to me. But no, I didn't want to give him the spare keys. I missed the Vette, and I was itching to get behind the wheel again.

"No, I'll do it."

"I'll stay here in case they return before you are ready and bug free, as your back up. Pick me up at the front. And remember: piece of cake," he said with a wink and the customary thumbs up.

I stood up and headed for the garage, scurrying and crouching between the vehicles parked outside, feeling rather apprehensive about the whole thing, but very keen on saving my beautiful baby on that bright Sunday morning. I hoped Murdock was right: what could go wrong in a gloriously sunny day like this one?

AAA

I've never felt such humiliation in my entire life! Front wheels up in the air, hooked and chained to that bitter, envious tow truck. How could my servant abandon me like this? He left me with that wacko Colonel at the petrol station, jumping with the others into that lowbrow, primitive van who couldn't even speak right, like its driver. And now they are taking me away, impounded. A stunner like me can't be impounded with the trashy, criminal lowlifes! Can't they see that? _Damn!_

That tatty tow truck dragged me on the road for many miles before we reached the closest police impoundment lot, farting on my face several times, vindictively, choking me with his disgusting exhaust fumes. When we got there, he dumped me as a load of garbage, dropping my front so hard on the concrete it fucked my suspension, cracking the arm bushes. The bastard. How dare he, the son of a…tow truck! Aaaargh. And this whole place stinks even worse than him! _Damn!_

"This beauty was impounded by a Colonel Decker, US Army. He said he'll come later with the paper work and the precise instructions for its keeping. I only know that you are meant to watch the car closely, 24/7. With its own, designated guards, starting right now," the tow truck driver said then, tending the pink copy of the slip and the keys.

"Oh, come on! We have security cameras, but the guards are watching the whole lot. And there is only two of them at night. We can't babysit individual vehicles here!" complained the other guy, taking the slip and the keys with a very greasy hand.

"Well, that's what that Colonel said. I don't care what you do. I'm done here. Have a good day."

I was so glad to see the back of that shitty tow truck going away for good, because now I had enough footage of his rear end embedded in my circuits to last me a lifetime of reeking nightmares. So long, motherfucker! Smell you later!

Hey, you. No. No, man, don't. Don't you dare. No. Aaaargh! Get that filthy paw off my door! That grease will leave a permanent smear there! And don't touch the wheel! Can't you show me some RESPECT?

Shit, I'll die in this shithole of a place if my servant doesn't hurry up. _Damn!_

AAA

"Switch that engine off, Peck," I said with my gun aiming at his head, dead serious, dragging my words in the most menacing, deep tone I could use to deliver a command.

My new stratagem, leaving only three well-hidden men behind in that run-down garage, including myself, had paid off. I got that slimy Lieutenant right where I wanted, because the idiot had surrendered, complying without putting up a fight. But I wasn't in the slightest surprised by his attitude: he yielded because he didn't have the balls to wreck his precious car, not like Baracus, who didn't mind so much smashing his bloody van against any obstacle that got on his way, as if he drove a bulldozer.

When Peck lifted his hands, looking at me with that seemingly innocent smile that I hate so much, I decided on the spot I would vent all my frustrations on him while his friends played around in the van, chased by most of my men. He would suffer today, paying for all the times the A-Team had double-crossed me and got away unscratched.

"Hi, guys. Playing hide-and-seek?" the annoying, irritating twat said then, making me even more determined, dead set on punishing him.

I made a sign to Robinson, the new private assigned to my unit, a beefy beast who loved boxing, had a smashing right hook, and a penchant for hurting people. He put his own gun away and nodded, understanding. Then, he grabbed Peck by the collar and dragged him out of the car, over the door, rough-handling him as never before at our hands. I enjoyed the brief flash of worry Peck showed in his handsome face then. I bet he would never expect what was about to happen, coming from us, but I won't be fooled anymore. No more mercy, and no more following the rules. No more by-the-book. No more two-minute warnings. I had enough!

"Bring that chair, Corporal."

Corporal Dempsey hurried to fetch the rickety garage chair, that was covered in grease and all sorts of filth, and left it in the only empty space, the middle of the room. I signed to Robinson again, and the beach buff dumped Peck on it, immediately jerking his arms back to handcuff them behind the backrest. Then, he took his piece from the underarm holster, and handed it to Dempsey.

"All right, all right. No need to be so rough," Peck complained, settling on the chair, shaking his head to flush his loose fringe off his face, sending me a scornful look. He looked cocky, but, was it all a façade, and he was shitting bricks under that shield of disdain? Maybe. "Be careful with that gun. Keep it safe, please. It has sentimental value, you know?"

You just wait, piece of shit, and you'll see what's rough!

"Lieutenant Peck, tell me: where did they go?"

"Who?"

"You know who: the rest of the A-Team."

"How would I know? I'm here, stuck with you and your lovely company," the jackass said, smiling at my men as if he didn't have a care in the world.

I lowered my gun and made a sign to Robinson with my hand, calling him close.

"Focus on his face. That will make him talk," I whispered to his ear. "Go wild, but don't knock him out. I need him awake and talking."

Robinson stopped by Peck, rotating his shoulders in preparation, moving his neck to the sides, stretching and bouncing a bit on his feet as if he was about to jump into the boxing ring. Peck watched the display in silence, with a poker face, while my man stretched his arms right in front on him, crackling his knuckles loudly, only a few inches from his nose. Then, Private Robinson punched that left blue eye with a direct, straight hit, followed by a quick strike with his left fist that banged the right one even harder. A combination so fast, that probably made Peck wonder what the hell happened there.

"You must have a rendezvous point. Where are you meeting?"

Peck shook his head then, moaning, and took a bit of time to answer, as if he could blink his pain away.

"Meeting? Nowhere. There's no meeting."

I only needed to look at Robinson this time, not even nod, and he smashed Peck's nose, that cracked under his fist. I'm not a man in favour of gratuitous torture, but I must admit I truly enjoyed the way that impertinent man howled as his nose bleed like a fountain, staining his expensive-looking clothes.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" he cried, groaning, struggling on that chair, pulling from the handcuffs, panicking for real this time.

"This is pay-back time, Peck. I've had it with you three. You better tell me where they are right now, or at least, tell me where they will be later, or you'll end up the day in need of plastic surgery to look human again!"

"I don't know where they are, I swear," Peck said while moaning and panting, fretting, quite dazed by all those precise blows. "And I figured you put a tracker in the car, so I wasn't meeting them until I found it."

"You are right about that: there is a tracker. But you didn't bother looking for it."

With my next sign, Robinson whacked his mouth, drawing blood at the corner, leaving Peck with a split lip. I gave him a few courtesy seconds before I asked him again.

"Well, I'm waiting, Peck. Will you tell me now, or should we carry on?"

By now, I fathomed he would not tell me anything, or he would have done so already. Still, I was determined to continue. Then, Peck delivered one of his usual one-liners. I was expecting it, the ill-timed, witty comment that always amused me, as well as irritated me big time. I know I shouldn't, but I liked these sharp comments. And sometimes, I even borrowed his lines, using them on other occasions.

"I already told you I can't… because I don't know. Did you forget to change the battery of your hearing aid?"

I must admit something: the runt of the litter had balls. His drive to antagonize me like that, while the beating continued, required some nerve and grit.

Next, Robinson whacked him with his infamous right hook, a superb hit that sent Peck to the floor still attached to that chair. Amazingly, he didn't black out after that killer blow, only spitting out blood, stunned, but still conscious. I was impressed by his feat, but I knew he could not take any more without passing out. I was about to tell that cock diesel he should ease up a bit on the guy now, when he got carried away, booting him as if this was a football kick-off.

"Now he can't tell us anything, you idiot!" I cried, deeply annoyed with that soldier that had gone too far. I slapped the back of his neck hard in anger. _Damn!_ "Get him up!"

That heap of muscles without a brain pulled the chair back up, dragging Peck along with it. His head lolled forward, and his whole body sagged on that chair, not fighting gravity anymore, all floppy.

"All right, leave him there on that chair. We'll carry on when he wakes up. Corporal, let's see if we can find the others in the meantime. They must be around, close by, because they would never leave their lieutenant behind. Or the car. Private, you stay here with him."

AAA

That lanky man with the cap over crazy hair jumped on my seat and started my engine. Finally! My poor servant, on the passenger's seat this time, didn't look too good. In fact, he looked awful.

Together, we managed to whack the bloody bastard that hit him to a pulp, and now we were free to go, without smashing the garage door, because this odd man had planned in advance and had opened the door first, not like my servant, who was so excited to see me he forgot that little detail. But this loony had also forgotten to take that transmitter off the undercarriage. The bastards hid it well, and it was firmly attached. I was trying hard, but I couldn't push it off myself.

Well, never mind. Maybe the big guy will use some toys to find it later. Now, I got the hell out of there as fast as I could go, burning rubber, skidding too close to another car at the first, sharp bend. Come on, guy! Get a grip! With a driver like this, I definitely want to drive myself like KITT.

Fresh air! Yay! That cool breeze felt so good. I hope it does some good to my servant too. He feels cold; his ass is colder than usual. That had to be a bad sign. And I can hardly feel his strong, throbbing heartbeats against the back rest today, only very faintly, and it's fast, way too fast for someone who is not moving at all, not batting a purple, puffy eyelid about what's going on.

His friend looked worried. I was worried. We should head straight to a hospital. But first, he remembered the bug. He stopped at the kerb and squeezed below me to look at the undercarriage. I tried hard to plump up the tyres, and I lifted my body a lousy centimetre off the ground. Well, I know, not much, but better than nothing, isn't it? But, it didn't matter. The idiot could not see it. There! Just behind the exhaust! Are you blind?

I felt him moving to get up, giving up, and then I made a mega-effort to spit it out. I pushed hard, as if trying to deliver a 10-pound baby, and in the end, I farted it. The bug dropped, close to that man's head, who probably considered himself lucky, as he stood up with a wide smile on his face. Ha! Lucky, my arse! The idiot...

We carried on and stopped at the next junction. A tatty truck stopped at my side. Sorry, mate, you are taking a little present with you, thanks.

"Hannibal, we got the car, but it was a trap. They beat Face real bad. I think he needs a hospital," the nutso said. Come on then. What are you waiting for? Let's go!

AAAAA


	3. Chapter 3

– **3 –**

Why did I say it this time? I don't know. Force of habit? Well, I also wanted to cheer Face up, because he has been quite miserable after losing the Vette, his pride and joy. But no, those words didn't cheer him up, they only made him groan and roll his eyes. Of course, his eyes rolled because he doesn't believe anything could be _a piece of cake_ for us. Not anymore. These four words failed his expectations too many times already. He groaned last night when I said that, while I lay over the details of the rescue plan, looking disappointed. And he was right to complain: Decker looks really determined to get us this time. More than ever. And this rescue would not be a piece of cake.

Before I closed the side door, I looked back when Face, following my plan, jumped out of the moving van after taking a sharp bend. He didn't get up and run to hide as fast as I expected. He took his time to stand, with a hand on his side, and got out of the way limping, barely missing the incoming military vehicles that chased us through the streets of Reno. I don't think the MPs saw him hiding behind the parked cars, but it was a close call.

 _Damn_. He is still nursing that cracked rib, but I forgot because he hasn't complained much about it since it happened, when he got shot and fell through that window at Crystal Lake. Maybe I'm asking too much from him. No wonder he often moans _"why does it always has to be me?"_ but we generally ignore him, when we don't make fun of him as a cry-baby. I certainly ignore his reservations when I make the plans for the team, when I joke telling him that a little bit of pressure will bring out the best of him. So, the poor chap has finally learned that complaining is pointless. However, he's right. For some twisted reason, it is usually him who gets hurt. I don't know why.

"B.A, head for the lake now."

"Yes, Hannibal. We'll be there in twenny," B.A said, jerking the wheel. The van screeched round the next sharp bend at speed, skidding on the pavement. If he carried on like that, the worn-down tyres would look as thin as paper by the end of this relentless car chase.

Twenty minutes. That should be enough time for Face to return to the garage and get the Vette with Murdock's help. We'll lose the MPs at the lake and wait for his call. Decker will believe he has us trapped, but we know a sneaky way out. I smiled then, visualizing Decker's incoming tantrum when we escape once again under his nose.

AAA

I can't stand this shit no more! Easy with me wheels, man! You left half me rubber in that feckin' corner, you fool!

I hate this, and I hate that bloody posh car. I hate that sucka' so much! Why do we have to mount this rescue operation for that piece of arrogant shit? I bet he comes outtta this heat all cool, with no scratch. It's always the same. Who gets the crap and the rough handling? Me. Who ends up breaking through doors, landing and sinking in water, shot up all over, customized as an armour-plate tank with all sort of holes drilled on the bodywork? Me. Who gets to carelessly roam the roads getting babes for exciting, fast rides? Him. Yeah, he got a flat tyre once or twice over the years, pierced by a bullet. So, what? That happened thousands of times to me tyres. And not only that, sometimes they get stolen, for fuck sake!

I ain't gonna put up with this crap no more! I've had it. Sod them all, specially the Vette.

After the next tight corner, I refused to go on, and I killed my engine in the middle of the street, coming to a halt.

My servant had a panic moment, twisting the key on the ignition frantically, stomping on the pedals, and banging on my wheel with his jewelled fist.

"Come on, Babe! Don't give up on me now, please!"

"What's wrong, B.A?" said the man with white hair, also panicking, looking through the wing mirror at the incoming vehicles, ready to get the machinegun out of the window.

That I'm fed up of this, that's what's wrong, ol' man! But I feel sorry for ya fools at the same time. Damn!

I let my servant re-start my engine, and we carried on at top speed before those clowns in uniforms caught up with us. Would Goldie get the hint? I doubted it.

No, by the way he took the next bend, digging his gold rings in me leather wheel with that tight grip, he didn't.

Damn fool! Show RESPECT for your van, will ya'? Otherwise, I'll turn to vanarchy, and I'll do as I please. Ha!

AAA

This was much better than gym training. Much, much better. Oh, man, the sound of that nose cracking under my knuckles… Priceless! The only downside of this exercise is that my hand is so sore now. _Damn!_ The next time they order me whacking someone while at work, I'll ask to wear boxing gloves. That's occupational health and safety. I have my rights!

I started with a fast combo: _bang-bang!_ That fool didn't know what hit him. And after the nose, whacking his mouth: _whomp!_ But the best one, my signature punch: the right hook that sent him to the floor, dragging the chair along.

What a blow! Despite the Colonel's instructions, I got too carried away and delivered a total K.O swipe. But this jerk didn't black-out, even if I nearly broke my hand hitting him.

I'm gutted, baffled by this man. How did he stand that hit? How was that possible? At the ring, I have knocked-out experienced fighters with that very same blow, guys that had noses that didn't crumble under my fist like this one's did. Does he have a jaw of steel? Too much chewing gum, perhaps?

When that twat smiled before he spat some blood on the floor, as if laughing at my effort, I lost it, and I kicked him as if trying to send a football to the moon. Then, of course, he cried and passed out. But Decker got very cross, and now I'm stuck in this shithole with this guy on my own. Oh, well. Fuck this jerk. Fuck Decker. Fuck them all!

Stuck… Stuck… Hum. This situation reminded me of that song: _"Stuck in the middle with you."_ With nothing better to do, I started mumbling that song, dancing around that guy on the chair while waving my gun in his —half an hour ago— quite handsome face.

 _Well, I don't know why I came here tonight  
I got the feeling that something ain't right  
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair  
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs  
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right  
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you_

I smiled then, because the guy certainly fell off that chair, and he was stuck in the middle of that run-down garage with me. Did he also feel that something wasn't right before he came? Well, at least it was Sunday morning, not Saturday night. But Colonel Decker could be called a clown. And Corporal Dempsey could be the joker. They are a joke, both of them. So... anal. Someone should make the colonel a favour and remove the stick out of his arse!

I burst out laughing at that thought, and then I carried on singing. I was so busy being silly, dancing around that man like an Indian circling a bonfire, I didn't notice the other guy coming into the garage. And when I did, it was too late. _Damn!_

AAA

Face is taking too long. Way too long. Come on, buddy, I'm waiting!

Maybe he's having trouble finding the bug, and he doesn't want to move the car before he gets it. We should have insisted on bringing B.A's toy to look for bugs and mics, but that also could take a while, and the thing is a bit cumbersome. And B.A doesn't like sharing his special toys, especially with me. He believes my bony butterfingers will break anything they touch. I have no idea how and when he got to that unfounded conclusion. Have I ever broken anything? No, never! Oh, well, his foot, once. Or twice. But that doesn't count!

Startled by the noise, I crouched down even lower when I heard the side door opening.

 _Damn!_ That's Decker! What is he doing there, when I've seen him going out in the car with Captain Crane, chasing the van? Oh, boy. Shit. I didn't expect to see Decker coming _out_ of the garage at all. If anything, he should be coming _in_. What happened to Face then? _Damn. Damn. Daaaamn!_

"Colonel, we got them!" Captain Crane's voice blasted out of the military radio Decker was carrying.

"We got Peck as well. Where are you, Captain?" he answered to the bulky handset.

"We have them trapped at Lake Tahoe, Sir. They can't get out. We cut the roads."

That was Hannibal's plan, losing them at the lake. So, everything, in that aspect, was going well, according to plan. Or it should be.

The two MP's got in a car and left the place with the siren blasting, leaving the gate open. At least, they were gone.

 _Damn!_ Where did they come from? I checked the place before. Nobody was there. No employees, as it is Sunday, and no MPs. Hannibal had insisted on going front door, in broad daylight, but on Sunday, so we'd encounter less traffic on the streets, and no innocent casualties at the garage. Where the hell were the MPs hiding?

AAA

I didn't like the place. Too many cars parked in that police impound at Reno, which was under-guarded, and too busy to keep track of all the cars. An easy place to steal vehicles. And too open-plan, with no place to hide to set up a trap for the A-Team. I had to move the car somewhere else if I wanted to make the most of this opportunity. It didn't happen every day that these clowns left their precious car with me, with keys and all.

"Where do you take the local police cars for service and repairs? I need a local garage."

"To Joe's. We take them to Joe's," said that overweight police officer in reception as he munched on a tray of donuts. What a difficult job the bastard had, didn't he?

"Would you care telling me where that is, Officer?" I said, sarcastic, losing my patience with the fatso. "If it's not too much hassle for you, of course."

He told me, and I went to have a look with my minion, Captain Crane. The place was perfect for an ambush. The A-Team would fall for it head-on.

I returned to the impound lot to retrieve the corvette, making sure everybody knew its new location. I drove the car myself, enjoying the touch of that soft, red leather, a nice change from the minimalistic and practical, military jeeps.

Despite the good looks of that car, I found the steering and the suspension quite faulty, with the car bouncing crazy, resenting any small bumps on the road. Maybe it needed a check over. They could have damaged it on towing, because I doubted Peck would drive it like this. They could service it at that garage, because I had plans for that car.

All in all, that corvette was a joy to drive, and I hated Peck even more now. _Damn_ , what a lucky bastard!

AAA

How did I let Hannibal persuade me to do this? I don't know. I don't remember how, exactly. Probably one of his: _"what is life without danger to feel alive?"_ , or perhaps _"this is the kind of stuff that gets out hearts pumping, Face"_. Whatever. But here I am, at the police impound lot in Reno, finding out the location of the Vette. I hope nobody recognizes me with the glasses and this posh, well-trimmed moustache, because if they do, it will be game over for me. No pressure, ah? Blood pumping, blood pumping… Feeling alive… And, more importantly: staying alive.

I took a deep breath, opened the door, and came into the office, heading straight to the desk as if I owned the place.

"Good morning Officer… Clarkson," I said, adjusting my glasses, reading the tag on his uniform. "My name is Alistair Donovan, a solicitor with Smith & Campbell."

I handed out a fake card, which the man took with nil interest, not even reading the name on it. Then I placed my leather suitcase at the counter and got a bunch of papers out, browsing through them quickly.

"What do you want?"

"I need your help, Officer. I have a list of cars I must find for the insurance company, cars that got stolen and probably have false plates on by now. This is the list, here." I produced a two-page document crammed with car registration numbers, brands, models and colours. "I would greatly appreciate if you could run this list on your computer with the registrations. And, while you do that, do you mind if I walk around the parking lot, checking the cars, because as I said, they probably have false plates now, and…"

"Are you nuts?" he cut me off, as expected. "I can't allow pencil-pushers wandering free around here. Get out of my sight! I don't have time for this nonsense."

"Well, Officer Clarkson, I understand your hesitation, and I understand you are a very busy person, that's why I was trying to make your life easier by doing the job myself, but if personally eyeing the cars in this lot is so frown-upon, can you at least be so kind to run the list in your computer? Please."

"All right. I'll take that list to the clerks, but I'm telling you, they are very busy. It could take weeks before you get an answer," Clarkson said, placing the list on a tray, on top of a bunch of documents. Then he handed me a piece of paper and a pen. "Fill up this form."

"Weeks? Oh, no, we don't have weeks to spare, I'm afraid. Look, I shouldn't tell you this," I said, leaning over to come closer, lowering my voice a bit, aware of the overweight officer that followed our conversation with interest from his desk beyond the counter, while he munched some dinky donuts on his break, "but the car of the Governor's son is on that list, and he wants to find it ASAP. I'm sure he would appreciate if you go the extra mile and take that list to the clerks right now, so we can find out that car's location today. His son had some very personal, valuable items in that car. And not exactly sentimental value, you know what I mean?" I said, chuckling. "It is a white corvette."

"A white corvette? With a red stripe?"

"Yes, yes, with a red stripe, and red leather seats. Is it here? Please, tell me it is here!"

"Yeah, I saw that car. What a beauty. But it's not here anymore. That Colonel took it a few days ago. Let me find out where."

"Thank you very much, much appreciated. I'll make sure the Governor knows Officer Clarkson helped on the search. The list, don't forget the list," I said, pointing at it while readjusting my glasses again. Clarkson took the list from the tray and walked away with it.

So, the Vette wasn't here anymore. Where could it be then?

"I heard your conversation," the overweight police officer said, approaching the information desk, still munching his donut. "I know where that car is. It is at Joe's, at the garage. But that cannot be the Governor's car. That has to be another one."

"Well, I'm sure a white corvette with a red stripe is quite flashy and distinctive, but it can't be the only one with that paintwork on, no. I'll check it out, just in case. Joe's, you said? I'll be back in a moment, I need to make a phone call. Car phone, you know?"

I put the rest of the papers in the briefcase and I got out of that place in my rental car as fast as I could.

AAA

"We can't take him to a hospital, you know that, Murdock," said the man with the white hair over the car phone. "Specially not now, while Decker is on the hunt. If they trashed him, it's probably a concussion. Go to Maggie's. We'll meet there."

"All right, Colonel. I'll be there as fast as I can. Hurry up, because he doesn't look good."

 _As fast as WE can_. Hum… that could be super-fast. Lighting, top speed.

We carried on speeding through the streets of the biggest little city in the world, and when I got to the highway ramp, I accelerated like an out of control racing car. I think that crazy man got scared of my engine power, because he lifted his foot off the pedal, holding onto his cap with one hand, but it didn't matter: I speeded up all the same. My servant needed medical care, and he would get it ASAP, no matter what.

I wheezed past all the other cars along the way, who honked and complained, calling me names, mainly something with an F on it. But, who cares? Damn jealous, little snails... Get off my way, you arseholes!

AAAAA

 _ **A.N – Shame Tarantino's film "Reservoir Dogs" came out in 1992, five years after the A-Team series ended, or I could have directly made a reference to that famous torture scene with that song. Good job this guy didn't cut Face's ear off!**_

 _ **By the way, if you have seen this film, you'll have an idea of what I am trying to do here with the non-lineal story telling. I realized of this similarity only after thinking about the torture scene at the garage.**_

 _ **There is also a little homage to Dirk Benedict in this chapter, so proud of his well-defined, strong jawline due to all that conscious food-chewing he does in real life ;)**_


	4. Chapter 4

– **4 –**

That wasn't a great landing. Not at all. _Damn!_

I've never been a great fan of jumping off moving vehicles, but Hannibal had insisted we should make the MPs believe the three of us got in the van and left together, so they would not expect me at that garage so soon. I knew the theory: relax, curl up and roll, but I don't like doing stunts. Not like Hannibal. He loves this kind of thing. Me? I hate it. And even more with a cracked rib.

I've rested as much as I could since that incident at Crystal Lake, but that rib was nowhere near healed, and now, hitting the tarmac like that, knocked the air out of me for a moment. Besides, twisting my ankle at the same time is not helping matters at all. Maybe I'm getting too old for this shit.

I got up, not as fast as I would have liked, and limped my way to the side of the road, to hide behind the parked cars, just in time. The MPs didn't see me, or they would have come for me.

Crouched behind a bulky Buick sedan, I patiently waited until the long procession of military cars on the chase passed by, and then I headed back for the garage on foot, holding onto my side. At least my ankle was only lightly sprained, and the pain eased off as I hoped along. It could have been worse.

AAA

Whatever their rescue plan is, whichever other people they use to get that car from the garage, they will not expect me there. I'm sure the A-Team used themselves as decoy to drag us all away from the corvette, but this time, I'll trap whoever comes along, thinking the place is empty, and they will tell me their location. Oh, yes, they will. I'll make sure they do… _Damn!_ I won't be fooled anymore!

Eager to return there, I jumped out of the moving car and rolled on the tarmac to get out of the way of the incoming vehicles. Easy. It didn't take me long to run back to Joe's garage and sneak in through the back door, taking my position, out of sight.

I didn't need to wait for long. Someone got inside shortly after me and got in the car. What a fool, whoever that was, not opening the garage door first!

At once, as planned, we quickly got out of our hiding places and surrendered the vehicle, aiming our weapons at the intruder, who had just started the engine.

"Freeze!" I cried.

That man did. It was Lieutenant Peck. What a surprise that was, because I saw him leaving in the van, no doubt about it. He must have jumped from it, the same as I did. What a coincidence, using similar plans as that weasel Smith. But this time, I'll win!

"Switch that engine off, Peck," I said with my gun aiming at his head, dead serious, dragging my words in the most menacing, deep tone I could use to deliver a command.

AAA

I could see only one MP through the window. Before, I had sneaked in quickly, but I didn't check all the storage cabinets and hidden recesses. The MPs must have been concealing themselves quite well until Face got in. And it looked like Decker got out of his car at some point, the same as Face did, and got in through the back door. Who would have thought the bastard would come up with a real plan this time, one so similar to the colonel's? And, why didn't I see Decker when he got in? _Damn!_

That young private was singing, dancing around Face, who sat on a chair, handcuffed, with his back to me. That jerk waved his gun on his face sometimes, laughing, and that made my blood boil. I got in, opening the back door silently, and walked close to the Vette, hiding from that fool. With silent footsteps, thanks to the rubber soles of my sneakers, which surely had received that name for this purpose and no other, I approached that pile of muscles and waited for the next time he would show me his back. He looked much stronger than me, but I didn't mind, because I had an advantage over him: I am insane, and right now, truly mad and thirsty for revenge, willing to use my naked fists on his stupid face.

I used the back of the Vette as my personal trampoline and jumped on that guy to tackle him to the ground, intend on beating him to a pulp and vent some anger, but that wasn't a good idea. He lost his gun but got up quickly and took a swing at me, but I dodged his fist and retaliate, hitting him several times. I should have used my gun instead, I realized too late, when the bastard didn't even flinch at my punches. This was one of those occasions I needed Face to deliver one of our tandem-punches, or better still, B.A himself to finish the job, but he wasn't there.

When I finally reached for the gun, that piece of meat kicked it off my hand, with a wicked laugh, and we ended up running like headless chickens inside that crammed space like fools in and old, silent movie. Up-beat, fast-pace music would have been great for that kind of silly chase.

At one point, when I took refuge behind the Vette, he slipped on a little oil puddle and banged his beefy body on the bonnet, denting it badly as if it was hit by a stag on the road. Then he kept chasing me around the car, until I tripped and fell on my face. Before I could get up, I heard another loud bang, and when I turned to look up, the car door was open, and that MP had knocked himself out with it, probably while plunging on me head-on, trying to land on my back. How lovely!

I kicked him out of the way and got to Face. Oh-my-God, he looked so awful! _Damn!_

"Face! Face!" I called, lifting his head, slapping him gently, but he was limp, totally out.

I had a look in that soldier's pockets, got the keys for the handcuffs, and I hurried up to take Face to the car. Then I opened the garage door to get the hell out of there as fast as I could.

AAA

This is the lousiest rescue attempt I have ever seen! For fuck sake, man! Can't you see that guy is three times your size? Use your goddamn pistol! Don't engage him empty-handed, you moron!

But no, the fool did exactly that. He got on my backend and jumped, flying free like a bird for one second, and tackled the singing twat to the ground. And, unsurprisingly, that mountain of muscles turned on him, kicked his gun away when the idiot finally realized he couldn't win a fist-fight with that brute and got the pistol from his holster, and now they are playing _"catch me if you can",_ running around me as if this was a comedy sketch fit for the _Benny Hill Show_. Maybe I should play the funny trumpet with my exhaust as they circle around me, for soundtrack, background effect.

Ouch! That hurt, you son of a bitch! How dare you denting my bonnet, you cow?

That's it. I'll concentrate, letting the Force flow. I'm so furious all that anger will redirect now… focus… focus…

 _Bang!_

Yay! I did it! I opened the door right when that sucker jumped to finish the fool. Ha! I will need a new door, but, who cares… In your face, motherfucker! Yeah, totally in your face, bwahahaha!

Come on, you fool! Get my servant on board and let's get the hell out of here!

AAA

Truly annoyed by that sound, I picked up the insistent phone, that would not stop ringing. Can't people realize if we don't answer it straight away, it is because my nurse and I are busy?

"Dr. Sullivan. How can I help you?"

"Maggie, it's Hannibal."

My angry scowl morphed into a worried one. I love to hear from him, but most of the times he calls, something is wrong.

"Are you hurt?" I blurted, straight to the point.

"No, not me. It's Face. Murdock is on his way, driving him on the corvette. They'll be there soon."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I'm not sure. Murdock said he's not looking good after Decker gave him a good trashing. He's not waking up, unresponsive. And according to Murdock, he looks like a total mess."

"I'm really busy right now. If he's that bad, I think you should take him to a hospital."

"You know we can't go to hospitals, Maggie. We need you. Please."

"All right, all right. Bring him in and I'll see what I can do."

"I'm on my way with B.A in the van, but Murdock should get there first. I'll see you in a bit. Thanks, darling."

He hung up, not giving me time to reply. Don't you _darling_ me, Hannibal! _Damn_ , I hate when he does that.

I replaced the handset and hurried up to finish flushing my patient's ear, wondering what could be wrong with Face. A concussion, probably. But he should wake up from that. If he was really that unresponsive, that couldn't be good news, and he would need a hospital.

I had a waiting room full of patients that now I would not be able to attend. I walked out of the consult room and stopped by the reception desk, clearing my throat loudly to get their attention.

"I'm very sorry, but I have an emergency coming in. I'm afraid you'll have to wait to be seen this afternoon or come another day."

That announcement caused a loud, generalized groan in the waiting room.

"I've been waiting for an hour already! I'm not leaving!" said a gentleman in his seventies.

"Neither do I," said a middle age woman. "Why do you have to attend such emergencies, Dr Sullivan? Why they don't go to the hospital? This is a primary care centre, not the ER."

"It is a long way to the hospital from here, unfortunately, as you all know. Let me…"

I got interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, that someone was pressing insistently, as if they got one finger glued to it. My assistant opened the door, and Murdock stormed in. Before he could say anything, I pushed him back outside.

"Don't say a word. The clinic is full of people. Let me see him first."

"They hurt him, pretty bad," Murdock said, agitated like an anxious bundle of nerves. "Please, help him!"

I followed him to the Vette, feeling increasingly anxious myself, but trying to stay cool and professional. With their line of work, I have often wondered how long it would take for any of them to get in serious trouble, but I have always fooled myself, wanting to believe bad things could not happen to good people like them. However, when I got to the car, hoping Murdock was exaggerating, I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand, with a very unprofessional reaction.

Oh… my… God... Murdock was right! _Damn!_

Face didn't look good at all. He surely got a nasty beating. His whole face was deformed, swollen and covered in fresh and dried blood, and I could hardly recognize him, but for his blonde hair and the expensive, stylish clothes.

"I'll bring the wheelchair!" I cried, hurrying back inside.

I fetched the wheelchair and came out again, aware of all the expectant murmuring in the waiting room. Unless I sneaked Face inside through the back door, which would be more complicated due to the narrower access and the steps, I would have to get him in through that room full of people. Which wasn't such a bad idea, because he looked so awful nobody would recognize him from the pictures of the A-team on the news. And, when they realize this is a true emergency, and that I'm not making it up, hopefully all my patients will leave without much fuss.

The patients in the waiting room also gasped when I wheeled him in, murmuring loudly and sympathetically.

"What happened to that poor man?" said the woman that had complained before.

"Sorry. We can't breach patient confidentiality," said Laura, my nurse, receptionist, and all-round assistant, while she followed us into the examination room, closing the door behind us. "Why is this man here, Maggie? He needs a hospital, not a day clinic!"

"He might not make it to the hospital," I said, taking his pulse. I could hardly feel it, as it was so feeble and weak, and way too fast. "Please, go back out there and re-schedule everybody's appointments. This is going to take a while."

"But he should…"

"Laura, please, trust me on this, and don't ask questions," I snapped. "Please."

"All right."

While she worked wonders with my busy agenda in reception, trying to fit everybody in over the next few days, I examined Face. I started by flashing my pen torch on his pupils, which reacted to the light nicely. That was a good sign. But his eyelids were so bruised, and so swollen, that it took me a while to open them to do that. I soon stablished his nose was broken, and probably some teeth as well, but I couldn't bother with those now, neither could I bother with his split lip. While I took his temperature and the rest of his vitals, Murdock could not hold it together any longer and he started firing questions in quick succession.

"How is he? Is he going to make it? What's wrong with him? What do you think?"

"Murdock, I don't know yet. I am still examining him. Let me continue, and don't get on the way, please."

"Oh, yes, sorry. Sorry. Carry on, please," he said, stepping back a bit, all jittery.

"Here, hold this over his mouth and nose," I said, passing him the hissing oxygen mask and the cylinder, to give him something useful to do. Then, I unbuttoned the top of the blood-stained shirt to uncover Face's chest, discovering a faded bruise over his ribs.

"He got shot a few days ago. Luckily, he had a bullet-proof vest on and he got away with only a cracked rib," Murdock explained when he saw me frowning at the sight of that old bruise.

While I listened to his heart and lungs with the stethoscope, Hannibal and B.A came in through the back door. On entering the exam room, they both stopped in their tracks when they spotted their friend, showing similar expressions of shock, worry, and anger on their faces.

"How is he?" Hannibal said, setting his jaw, probably imagining what he would like to do to whoever had done this.

"I don't know yet. But not great. His pulse is 140; it shouldn't be that high with a concussion or brain damage."

Clenching his jaw as well, B.A didn't say anything and got out of the building, back to the van.

"Murdock, what happened?" Hannibal said.

"It was a trap. He didn't want to go in, Colonel. He felt it was a trap. He said it gave him the bad _jazz,_ but I didn't listen to him, and…" Murdock babbled, fretting while he held the oxygen mask over his friend's face with trembling fingers.

"Focus, Captain. Don't worry about that now. Tell me: what did they do to him? How and where did they hit him?"

"I… I don't know. I was waiting outside, keeping guard in case someone came in, but they were already in! This is all my fault. I didn't see anybody inside the garage when I checked. I thought it was safe!"

"So did it. Damn it."

While they talked, I carried on with the clinical exam. It looked like the MPs had concentrated on smashing his face, but the fast heart rate, the low temperature, the low blood pressure, and how pale he looked, pointed in another direction, totally different to a concussion or brain damage. And, although significant, he hadn't lost enough blood through his broken nose to cause those symptoms. It had to be something else, and I had my suspicions. I considered placing an IV line to give him fluids to maintain his blood pressure at more acceptable levels, but that could make matters worse. Before I did that, I opened the shirt completely to a look at his abdomen. The bruise on his upper left side made me frown again. I palpated his abdomen carefully, while pressing on the middle, and I could feel fluid thrill. _Damn._

"Hannibal, I don't like this. I think he can have internal bleeding. I think they kicked him badly."

"Did they?" Hannibal said, looking at Murdock.

"Sorry, I told you I don't know what they did, Colonel. I saw Decker and another MP coming out of the garage, and then I went in and knocked the only soldier that was guarding him. I found him like this, tied to a chair. I have no idea what they did to him exactly."

I got a needle and a syringe to confirm my suspicions.

"Help me to turn him over, resting on his left side." When they did, I performed a quick abdominocentesis, stabbing him with the needle. I got 4 mls of blood without any effort, at the first try. _Damn._ "He's bleeding inside. You must take him to a hospital. He needs surgery straight away."

"Can you fix it here?" Hannibal said.

I shook my head wildly. "No!"

"Please."

"Look Hannibal, I would if I could, you know that, but Face needs a hospital. It's fine for me to retrieve bullets of simple shots, stitch up your little wounds and give you plasters for your booboos, but he needs a hospital. This is major surgery. I'm quite sure the spleen is burst and that he'll need a blood transfusion, or several, but God knows what else is damaged in there. I don't have the right equipment, this is a very small primary care set up. If you want a botched job and a dead friend, OK, stay here. If not, get him to a hospital ASAP."

"All right. If you think so, I won't waste any more time here. Thanks for your help, Maggie," he said, landing a quick kiss on my lips. "I hope I can see you soon under better circumstances, darling."

"Hey, Hannibal! We had a bug!" B.A said, coming back to the room.

"Yes, Murdock removed the transmitter and planted it on a truck."

"No, another one! This was under the driver's seat," he said, showing a little device on his huge palm before the crushed it.

" _Damn_. Come on, let's go. We must take Face to a hospital right now. We have no time to lose. B.A, take him back to the van, please."

"OK, Hannibal."

"Come on, Murdock, let's go," Hannibal said, following B.A as he carried Face to the van in his strong arms, walking through the now empty waiting room.

"But… we can't go! He's in a very bad shape!" he said, following them, carrying the small oxygen cylinder and the mask with him. I didn't mind. Face needed it.

"I know, and that is precisely why he needs the hospital. Maggie can't fix him. Come on, let's go. Now."

Murdock hurried then to open the van's side door for B.A.

"I'll take this," Hannibal said, taking the oxygen cylinder. "You follow us with the Vette."

"But, Colonel, I want to be with him. I…" Murdock complained.

"I know you do, but I need you to drive the Vette away from Dr. Sullivan's. We'll park it, well hidden, and then you'll join us in the van. How about that?"

"That sounds much better," Murdock said, jumping on the Vette not bothering with the door.

"Thank you, Maggie," Hannibal said.

"Take him to the Community General in Reno. Their ER department is the best, and one of the closest. I'll come along, I might help you with the police."

"That would be great, but please, don't get yourself in trouble," Hannibal said, with another hurried kiss.

"All the best! Good luck!" I cried, waving to the van as they left the clinic, followed by Murdock driving the Vette. _You're gonna need it._

AAAAA


End file.
